Holding On
by harliesue
Summary: 'This is it. Finally. My John. My dear, lovely John. Years of pulling off the webs and cutting all the strings that surround James Moriarty and I finally get to come home to him. Our home.' But is it home? Is it even the John Watson you knew? Post-Reichenbach/Reunion. Not another happy ending...(WARNING: Triggers are very present)
1. Too Long

**Inspired by a lovely benadrylsnaperdoodle. Has a bit of a trigger. I do hope it is enjoyed and I will take all criticism into consideration and deal with it respectively. Thank you for reading this!**

**-HS**

* * *

_This is it. Finally. My John. My dear, lovely John. Years of pulling off the webs and cutting all the strings that surround James Moriarty and I finally get to come home to him. Our home._

Sherlock wrapped his coat closer around him as the bitter cold air seeped into his very bones. He stood in front of 221B and took a lasting moment of random sentimentality to gaze over his long missed abode. He noted the rotting degradation of the Speedy's café cover from the passing of seasons and time and the wear on the handle of the door. Sherlock concluded that it has been far too long since he felt the warmth of his flat and lavished in the wonderful scent of Mrs. Hudson baking.

_Far too long, indeed._

Not wasting any more time, Sherlock bounded up the steps and into the building that had been absent from his touch for years. As a near instinct, Sherlock analyzed missing pictures and plants. He also noted the lights that were off in Mrs. Hudson's apartment.

_Must be sleeping or out. Doesn't matter. John is what matters._

As the consulting detective thought of his army doctor, a smile spread across the man's features. He missed the sandy hair that he never dared to touch. He missed the hideous jumpers that he never dared to pull closer to him. He missed the laughing and mere voice of his loyal blogger. He missed every single aspect of John Watson, from his incessantly slow typing to the obsession for a good cup of tea. Tonight, though, the desire to have his small, jumper wearing, and ever so warm John in his arms was soon to be satisfied.

Sherlock didn't bother to knock as he entered their flat in a custom extravagance. "John, I'm-"

The genius stopped mid-sentence. Never has he completely lost every thought in his brain until the very moment he stepped into the once vibrant room. Then, even after a second, only one thought echoed around his now vacant mind.

_John. Oh my John. What have I done to you..._

In front of Sherlock laid the sleeping form of an ex-army doctor, John Watson, surrounded by newspaper clippings, bottles of alcohol, and stray bullets.

_This isn't right. This is not how it's supposed to be. John is supposed to be okay. He is always okay._

Sherlock took one careful step in front of another, navigating around glass and piles of who knows what. His mouth hanged slightly open as Sherlock came to rest on his knees in front of his John. A cracked voice came from the hollow shell of Sherlock Holmes. "John. I'm alive, John."

Suddenly, John was sitting up and staring blankly back at Sherlock. Barely audible, John whispered, "You're back. I thought you were gone for good this time. I didn't mean to yell at you. I am glad you're back."

Confusion played heavily across Sherlock's face as John kept repeating a mumbled assortment of apologies. "John, don't you understand? I am here. Right now."

A weak grin answered back, yet it didn't encase John's entire face. Deep shadows shaded the skin underneath his eyes and the light had vacated from every facet of the blogger's once shining orbs of sight. This was not his John, Sherlock realized. Sherlock did not know who this man was.

"Of course you're right here. You are always right here, until I yelled at you. Then, you left me here, all by myself. You can't do that to me ever again, though. You had me so worried."

Sherlock placed gloved hands on either side of John's face and brought it closer to his own. The overwhelming smell of a lack of hygiene and liquor nearly made Sherlock let go, but his fingers held on tight. "Listen to me. I wasn't here before. I never was. I am here right now, though. Can't you see?"

John leaned into the touch of Sherlock and shook his head. A deep breath passed through his beloved doctor's body and Sherlock could feel his hands grow wet through his gloves.

_Is John… crying? No, don't do that John. I'm sorry John. Forgive me._

Glazed and liquid filled eyes looked up at Sherlock's concerned and emotional ones and Sherlock felt John automatically stiffen. A stutter of words shot of John's mouth.

"No. No. No. This isn't real. You left… You left me. I asked you to come back, Sher-." John's mouth couldn't seem to form the detective's name and left him repeating, "Sher-," until he was suddenly encased by the lanky arms of Sherlock Holmes. "This isn't real. This isn't real. This isn't real."

Not knowing what to do, Sherlock grazed his fingertips lightly over John's now gray more than blonde hair, and muttered, "Shhh, John. I am here. I am real."

Suddenly, John's frail body was violently wracked with sobs as he slammed his fists into Sherlock's chest. "This isn't fair. You know I was going to finally come see you and now you do this to me. Why can you never just do something for me? Why can't you just let me come to be with you?"

Sherlock was left silent.

_Be with me? If he thinks I am dead… Be with me. Oh no, John. No. You don't do this. You are always strong. You would never do that._

Unable to think clearly, Sherlock pushed John off of his body and stood up, stumbling around the room in confusion. "This isn't right. You're supposed to be okay, John. I was supposed to come home and you'd be alright and everything would be normal again. This is wrong."

Sitting silently on the floor, John let his mouth fall open. Slowly, his jaw started working up and down, as if he had something to say. "Say that again. Say, this is wrong again."

Sherlock stopped his pacing and complied with John's demand. "This is wrong."

John stood shakily up and limped across the floor to place a hand on Sherlock's cheek. Turning his head in a slight inquiry, a sudden fury flooded his blogger's eyes as Sherlock pressed hesitant lips against John's cold palm.

"You're alive," he said in a dead monotone.

"Yes. I am alive."

_And I love you. I love you more than my words can say._

The palm ripped itself away from Sherlock's searching lips and turned itself into a fist. A fist which collided with Sherlock's nose and made a sickening crunch as crimson exploded from the detective's face.

John shook out his hand a turned his back to the detective who was frantically trying to stop the stream of blood pouring out of his nose.

_But you don't love me. Your best friend. The man who died for you._

Speaking at the ground, John spat, "Three years I have waited to do that."

"Surely, it was unnecessary."

_Was it? John. I'm sorry. I did this all for you. To save you._

Sherlock automatically regretted his words as a snide laugh slipped out the army doctor's mouth. "I think that you leaving me was unnecessary. Doesn't matter too much now, does it?"

"John, I'm-"

John whipped around and stared coldly back at Sherlock. "Don't you dare apologize. Don't you dare."

Sherlock closed his mouth in compliance and continued to hold his still bleeding nose.

_John. Please listen to me-_

"You have no… You have no idea how hard it has been for me Sherlock. I saw you. I saw you as you fell through the air. I felt your wrist and there was no pulse. No life! I watched your casket lower into your grave. I cried, Sherlock. I came to your damned grave and cried. Then, I asked you to not be dead. The only thing I ever asked you in our entire time together. I asked you because I couldn't bear to have you gone without-" John cut himself short and left the word, "without," hanging in the air.

Sherlock took a cautious step forward and asked, "Without what, John."

_Without... No. He doesn't... Does he?_

A tongue dragged itself across nearly chapped lips and the blogger swallowed at the sudden intensity of his best friend's voice. John stared at a pile of glass and metal and slowly said, "Without me ever telling you how I felt."

Another step. "And how did you feel John?"

_John... My John._

The breath of his old flat mate grazed John's skin and his eyes fluttered closed as Sherlock took another step forward. The blogger could feel long fingers caress the side of his face and he shivered as they trailed down his neck and arm.

"I loved you, Sherlock."

Suddenly, the touch was gone and John's eyes flew open. Sherlock's face was mere centimeters away from his own. "Do you still love me?"

_Loved: Verb. Past tense. No longer. Done. Never again._

John shook his head slightly and said, "I don't know."

Sherlock placed his face closer to John's and asked, "Do you still love me?"

_It's useless. Stop wasting your words._

A forbidden whisper slithered out of his throat and said, "Yes. I always have. Always will."

_Always-_

Angular lips crashed against smaller, normal ones and both melded into a single passionate kiss. Tugging and the clash of teeth couldn't bring the two men closer together. Sherlock slid his hands around John, ignoring the weight loss and the protruding ribs and slammed him against the now closed door. Almost as if neither men had eaten for days, they carnivorously tore at each other's mouths to simply be one, not two. Shirts were violently shed and as one bare chest struck another, a shocked gasp slid out of John's mouth. Sherlock took the advantage and slid his tongue deftly into John's mouth.

Both men came to a rest as their bodies needed a moment to intake some air. Deep and heavy breaths passed through each men and their foreheads leaned together.

"I missed you so much, Sherlock."

Sherlock opened his eyes and said, "I missed you, too."

_I love you._

He kept saying it as he looked at the star burst of scarred flesh and the thousands of small lines crossing every which way across John's torso. Many of which were obviously self-inflicted.

_My fault. All of this. Mine._

Sherlock brushed his hand over John's ribs and brought his mouth intently towards John's again, trying to forget about the bruises and burns and scars. Together, they rocked slowly against the door and found themselves shamelessly crossing into Sherlock's once inhabited bedroom.


	2. Losing Grip

_Hard cement painted in red. Too much red. It didn't need to be red. The painter didn't have to make his stroke, but he let it fall. He let it fall and he spread red around the canvas of the gray ground and it keeps spreading. I am trying to reverse it. I am trying to stop him painting. Yet, the painter continues on even as I yell-_

"SHERLOCK!"

A deep baritone graces his ears and John is in disbelief that he could hear his consulting detective. Usually, he was absent in the mornings, let alone in his bedroom. The man is saying something about being right there for John, yet the doctor doesn't listen to the words so much as the tone. Rich and velvety, the most wonderful sound in the world.

_I miss him so much._

"John, why are you crying?"

The army doctor allowed his eyes to focus on the dark form of his consulting detective as it was much too early to see anything. "I'm not crying."

A long finger poked at a falling tear and said, "Yes, you are, John."

_John. He said my name. Oh, say it again._

John brought his own hand up to wrap around Sherlock's and brought it to his mouth. He could taste the salty water on the tips of calloused fingers and his lips formed a kind smile at the sensation.

_Oh, dear mind. You are being kind this morning. Too kind. Stop it, please. You know what happens on days like these._

The fingers at his mouth moved out of his hand and into his hair. They gently stroked through his scalp and across his fine stubble. John shook his head and asked Sherlock to stop. "Come on, Sherlock. Not again. You can't keep doing this. I am going to see you whether you like or not."

At his request the fingers stopped and John found himself looking into two silvery blue oceans.

"John, you are seeing me."

The blogger rolled to his back and let out an empty laugh.

"Oh, you know what I meant."

A lean body moved on top of his own skin and bones and whispered to him, "John, do you not remember last night? Do you not remember what we… What we did?"

John glanced past the mop of hair and down at his revealed skin.

_Oh, yeah. You are here... Bloody hell!_

John moved a fairly naked Sherlock Holmes off of his not so dressed either body and sat up on the edge of the bed. He looked down at himself and saw all of his scars and bruises and… newer bruises and hastily grabbed a sheet to wrap around his body.

The fingers came back once more to slide up John's exposed back and a slight morning breath passed by his ear.

"Don't hide, John. I know. I know and I don't care."

_Don't care? Don't… care? He doesn't care about all the things he has made me believe. He doesn't care that I did all this to get closer to him. He doesn't care?_

"Do you… Do you really not care?"

The hand on his shoulder stiffened as did the figure pressed up against him and the seductive voice rolled through the room again.

"You know what I meant, John."

The doctor nodded his head and let the sheet fall back down around him. As the cover slid lower, more injuries revealed themselves. Stark red cuts contrasted with the white scars as did random and burned flesh did with paler, clean skin. John never really took the time to gaze at himself and as he did, as he saw how transparent his skin had become and how revealing his ribs were, the doctor became sick. He became sick with himself and sick with the world and sick with the detective slowly rubbing his hand lower and lower, over all the marred flesh.

John gently lifted Sherlock's hand off his abdomen and placed it to the side. Unsteadily, he got up off the bed and grabbed the blue silken robe off the nightstand to wrap around himself and move towards the bathroom.

"Where are you going?"

John moved his eyes towards the fully exposed Sherlock Holmes and carefully averted them to a more reasonable place in the darkened room.

"Bathroom."

_I can't be around you right now. I have to wash up. I haven't had a shower in a week. I haven't had sobriety since... since forever. I have to cleanse myself. I won't tell you that, though. No, you can just read that you smug bastard. You know that I am doing so much more than going to the bathroom._

The consulting detective let a flash of white shoot through the darkness as he opened his mouth to say something, but there was an audible click of the jaw as his mouth closed once again. "Don't take too long."

John laughed, a bit fuller than before and stiffly answered, "Trust me, it won't be that long."

"John, I-"

The doctor shook his head and said, "No. Don't… Don't say it." Then, he continued to walk out of the room, navigating in simple movements around cluttered piles of old cases, broken chemistry sets, and burned books and towards the bathroom.

A yellow light flickered on within the room as John flipped a switch and he gazed at himself blankly in the mirror.

_I look like death. Funny, feel like it too._

John's eyes dropped to his chest and away from his sunken and hair covered face. He picked at the flimsy robe and realized that it was Sherlock's. He quickly shed it off and started up the shower, desperately trying to keep from crying or shaking or both.

As steam billowed out of the shower, John laid naked on the floor mat shivering from shock.

_He is alive. He is alive and real. I was going to see him. If I had… It would have been myself again. I wouldn't see him. Do I really want to stay here, though? _

A limp wrist lifted to cross his vision and John looked over all the scars he had put there. He could no longer feel the burning sensation of each one. Instead, the pain was just a solid whole that latched itself on his heart. It was heavy and leaden and the most draining aspect of his life. To watch as crimson dripped and flowed in lazy lines, though, made the weight a bit less. John regretted doing all of this to himself, but he still needed it. He still needed the physical pain because his emotions were fighting far too hard within his soul.

_Where is it? Where…_

John sat up and moved the shower curtain as remember where his steel savior and destroyer had resided. He climbed gently into the steaming tub and let scalding water pour hatefully, yet soothingly across his back. His fingers grazed the edge of his silver blade and the blogger held it with trembling fingers as more water flooded past him.

_I don't want this, but I need it. You are going to get out of this shower and he will see you for what you are. See that you were not worth the fight to get back here. He'll be disappointed. He doesn't even love me. He never said it. I am John Watson. Invalided army doctor who is depressed, middle-aged, alcoholic and in love with his not-so-dead best friend. I am the only destruction of my self. I am useless to this world where he was never useless. He shouldn't have had to fall. It should have been me. Still, should be me and it should have been real. It should have been real._

John allowed the edge of the blade move closer to his skin. He could almost hear it saying that it would all be quick. All the pain would be gone if he were to push a little harder, cut a little deeper, twist it even further. John Watson glared at the hateful object as it brushed against his soaked skin and told it to just finish its job. Do what it is supposed to do and leave silently. Yet, the fingers that kept a firm, yet shaking, hold on the slick metal couldn't bring themselves to hold on any longer.

The little razor dropped with a few clanks on the bottom of the tub and John moved as far into the corner of the bath as possible.

_Don't look at it. You are above this. You are more than this. _

The glint of silver made John desire for it to be in his hands, desired for it to take away the pain, but he quickly kicked it into the drain, fighting to go and grab it back.

John noticed a stream of red swirling around in the water and checked his foot to see that the blade had made one last cut. In hypnotic twists and curls, the crimson flowed freely into the drain, following its creator and the sight brought tears to John's eyes. He rubbed a hand over his face to quickly rid the tingling sensation of crying and stood up.

Scrubbing every last inch of himself and giving a good teeth cleaning, John stepped out of the shower and wrapped a towel around his lower half. He gazed thoughtfully at his toe and watched as sporadic drops of scarlet marked the bathroom rug.

_It's all done now, though. Cold turkey. I can do this. I can do it. I can…_

At that moment, the bathroom door opened and Sherlock stood in the doorway. John watched as his eyes went to the blood, to the shower, and then to John's eyes.

_I can't do this. I can't…_


End file.
